Personal Effects
by irite
Summary: Many people have keepsakes, good luck charms, or things they just can't seem to get rid of. The Avengers and their associates are no different.
1. Tony

**I know little about the Avengers beyond the movies, so please excuse any mistakes I make. There is one glaring thing that I have altered, but such is the beauty of fanFICTION. Explanation at the bottom, if anyone's interested.**

**Many thanks to my beta, dysprositos.**

**Warning: Tony's mouth.**

* * *

Tony Stark was defined by his experiences. His childhood neglect manifested itself in his drinking problem and in his apathy towards the destruction his creations wrought upon his fellow man. His time in Afghanistan, while supremely unpleasant, was a dash of cold water to his system.

Now, his survival depended upon on an object he could barely control. To make matters worse, the very existence of his arc reactor proved what he had been trying to forget for so long: Tony Stark did, indeed, have a heart.

Hearts meant emotions. Emotions were silly. Pointless. Who needed feelings? Who needed other people to care?

Not motherfucking Tony Stark.

However, the arc reactor put him in a position where he no longer totally controlled his own life, a fact proved when Obadiah Stane ripped it from his chest with about as much effort as he would have needed to open a can of soda.

Tony refused to share his technology with anyone. Especially after that.

* * *

He hated vulnerability. Howard always had, and he had instilled the same belief in his son. Howard's life had been spent searching for Steve Rogers, the man who was the definition of invulnerability.

Steve lost his best friend in battle, and still managed to keep his damn head. He got the job done and protected the rest of his men. Only once the mission was complete did Steve allow himself to grieve.

Tony lost count of how many times Howard told that story when punishing him.

Howard wasn't around much. He left child-rearing to his wife. But Howard was always the disciplinarian.

Humiliation was a favorite tactic. Tony was 16, attending MIT, when he blew off his father's demand to come home for the weekend. Howard, a product of the lean and warlike '30s and '40s, publicly derided Tony. Forbade him to see his friends, those "little bastards who encourage disobedience."

Really, that was the last straw. Tony alienated people after that. Rhodey was the only one brave and compassionate enough to stay close.

Even so, Tony hated showing any kind of fucking emotion in front of his friend.

After Tony's parents were gone, he cracked. Retreated into his shell.

There were only three reasons he would emerge: work, booze, and women.

When he got drunk the night of his graduation, Tony lost his virginity to an older blonde.

After that, lust became an acceptable expression for Tony. It was not an emotion, no fucking siree.

He excused his desire as "hormones." He was a young, virile man. Obviously, he would be attracted to women. There was no damn reason he should not share their beds.

He never got too attached. No one ever got more than a few hours. No one ever went into his real bedroom. Sure, he pretended to take them to the real thing, but he needed a haven once his partner inevitably fell asleep.

Tony existed this way for over a decade.

* * *

Tony needed a new assistant. His old one had been "secretly" leaking information to the press. Of course, Tony knew what was going on. Not much got by him, even when he was three sheets to the wind. Tony just thought it was amusing that the man thought he could pull the wool over Tony Fucking Stark's eyes.

By this time, pride had also become an accepted expression. Not a goddamn emotion.

When he finally grew tired of the man's antics, Tony sued.

He won. The last anybody saw the ex-PA, he was begging on a shitty street corner in LA.

Admittedly, the only reason Virginia Potts got an interview was her looks.

She looked like Tony's mother. Nostalgia was not an emotion, just a human weakness, so Tony indulged in it and interviewed her personally.

Miss Potts displayed a mind that almost equaled Tony's. She was gifted in areas he was not, notably organization. They fit, like two puzzle pieces.

* * *

Tony was upset when he realized that he didn't want to get into Miss Potts's pants. Her mind attracted him, not her body—after all, she looked like his mother.

He grew to enjoy her company. The incident that gave her her nickname, Pepper, could still make him break out into fucking giggles, always at the most inopportune moments.

She was closer to him than anyone.

Therefore, it was only natural that she should be the one to tell him, in so many words, that Tony Stark did have a heart. And it worked.

He was a motherfucking humanitarian. He stopped producing weapons and destroyed the worst of his prior creations. He created green energy. He worried about his fucking friends. He HAD friends, for chrissakes! He might even love Pepper, like the sister he never had.

When Pepper told Tony all of this, it was only natural that he should cry—for the first fucking time since he was a teenager—in her arms.

Tony Stark _did_ have a heart, as hard as it was for him to admit it. If he ever forgot, he could just look at his chest and be reminded.

* * *

**Pepper and Tony's relationship in the Iron Man movies always seemed forced to me. Like they're trying too hard or something. So I decided to make them sibling types instead.**


	2. Steve

**Many thanks to my beta, dysprositos.**

* * *

Steve Rogers's leather jacket had been with him since the beginning. After the serum, none of his clothes fit. Agent Carter—Peggy—had taken him to get new civilian clothes. It was her last gift before she and Stark shipped out for England.

That jacket kept him warm as he traveled the States, visiting anywhere his superiors thought he could sell war bonds.

That jacket went with him when he went on the USO tour to Europe.

He wore it when he went to rescue Bucky and the rest of the 107th.

It was on his back when they made their triumphant entry into the camp.

He left it with the rest of his things when they went out to disable HYDRA's base in the Alps.

Peggy was picturing Steve in that jacket, not formal wear, when she pictured their date. She liked the more rugged side to him.

SSR solemnly boxed up all of Steve's things when all of Stark's searching proved fruitless.

* * *

It was in those boxes that Steve found his jacket more than a half-century later.

To be honest, Steve sat on the floor with his face in the jacket and cried. He, too, had been picturing wearing the jacket to that date all those years ago.

He'd always seen crying as cleansing. It was a better stress release than a punching bag, but harder to explain. So, he usually vented his frustrations on the bag.

He wore the jacket to and from the gym, even in the summer. He was always cold now. A chill clung to him, like Peggy's scent did to his jacket.

Tilting his head just the right way, he could catch her perfume on the wind.

* * *

The gym was the only place he went, these days.

He'd taken a small apartment in Brooklyn, near his old stomping grounds. He couldn't stay at headquarters. Military-style living was all he knew, but it carried memories of Peggy with it.

Steve preferred to grieve in silence.

So SHIELD paid for the apartment, and Steve rarely left it, except for trips to the store and the gym.

He ate voraciously, as the serum had altered his metabolism. He was always hungry, it seemed.

Once he learned how to work the new appliances, he shrugged into his jacket, his destination the bookstore.

He had used the telephone directory to find the nearest store. No computers for Steve.

The store was small, the lone employee was a woman with a...bar? through one of her eyebrows.

Hell, what was this world coming to?

Steve soldiered on, finding the cookbooks and choosing several.

From then on, cooking occupied much of his time.

* * *

Once he had cooked (and enjoyed) most of the recipes in his new books, he decided to get back into drawing.

He could not find any art stores in the directory, though.

So Steve pulled on his jacket and rode the subway to the library.

An older librarian did a double take when she saw him, but she was more than happy to get him settled onto one of those new-fangled computers.

He found a store located between the gym and his usual grocery store.

When he went in, he nearly dropped his jacket in surprise. He hadn't ever seen this many art supplies in one place.

A sketchbook and some charcoal pencils were all he needed.

* * *

Steve had settled into a routine. He cooked, worked out, and drew. His jacket was more active now, as his errands became more frequent.

This comfortable pattern was interrupted when Director Fury requested his assistance. Fury bet him that the world had gotten stranger, that there were still things that could surprise him.

He put on his favorite jacket and went to see if Fury was correct.

When the ship became a plane, he knew he was beat. He fished the ten he owed out of his pocket and retreated to his quarters, where he quietly folded his jacket and placed it into the closet.

It was one of the only things he had left. He would go to fight. And Steve Rogers would come back, to put his jacket on, like he hadn't been able to do before.


	3. Bruce

**Mark Ruffalo as Bruce is one of the best things I've seen in a while. I hope I did him justice.**

**dysprositos, many thanks for the beta-ing.**

* * *

Dr. Bruce Banner had made many poor decisions in his life, and he carried a reminder of the worst around with him. A piece of his original lab table, destroyed by his first transformation, was his near-constant companion.

It was almost like a good luck charm for him. He was so attached that even the Other Guy felt anxious when it was not near.

And nobody liked it when the Other Guy is anxious.

* * *

Bruce came to slowly. He was in the wreckage of his lab, wearing tattered scraps of clothing. He knew something was wrong.

Quickly, he pulled on the spare set of clothing he kept around in case of major screw-ups, grabbed the security footage, and took several samples from the wreckage.

They would all be tested and discarded over the next few weeks as Bruce fled society, and ultimately, himself.

This particular piece of the ex-table emitted faint gamma rays. It intrigued Bruce, because the rays should not be attached to metal.

He attempted to study it but made very little headway. So the scrap was pushed to the side, but kept close. Bruce had no other sample of the radiation other than himself.

He knew what happened to the poor man who ingested his blood, spilled in the bottling factory. Ross had been only too happy to tell him.

Sampling himself would be a method of last resort.

* * *

Months passed as Bruce hid himself in small villages desperate for doctors. Luckily, he'd always had a bit of a talent for languages.

He was in Kolkata, treating a strain of the flu he thought was new. He had no equipment, no way to verify.

He never did get any research done, but the scrap was always close at hand.

Bruce had taken to running a finger over it every night before he fell asleep, like one might do to a lucky horseshoe.

It had its own small pocket in Bruce's bag.

* * *

When the small girl came to fetch Bruce, the Other Guy stirred and Bruce's gut tightened. Something just felt off about the situation, but Bruce was damned if he knew what.

When he saw the red-headed woman waiting for him, he had his answer.

Bruce was just glad he had the scrap in his pocket. Agent Romanoff didn't seem like the sentimental type. And she didn't let him return for his bag.

He fingered the scrap every time he dealt with his new acquaintances, Tony Stark in particular. He was drawn to the man in a way he couldn't understand.

* * *

Apparently, the scrap threw off enough radiation to interfere with tracing the Tesseract, so Bruce secured it in his spare set of clothes in his room before returning to work.

He did his job, but when Loki tore at the team's fragile bonds, it was too much for the Other Guy to bear. Combined with his frustrations with Agent Romanoff's brusque manner of bringing him in, Bruce was surprised she wasn't a little red puddle of goo.

* * *

He was nearly frantic when he woke up, alone and in a strange place. Bruce couldn't bear this feeling.

He sped to the battle, hoping to channel his frustrations into some Hulk smashing.

* * *

Afterwards, Bruce nearly fainted when Tony showed him the footage of the Hulk smashing Loki. His hand went into his pocket out of habit.

Tony picked up on this, more perceptive than most realized.

When Tony asked, there was nothing Bruce could do but show him the scrap and explain.

"This is a piece of my first lab. Yes, that one. I keep it as a reminder of what an irresponsible moron I was. I completely ignored protocol, and I could have easily injured or killed another person." He paused. "It also emits radiation."

"You've got shitty luck, that's all. Want to test the radiation? I've got some machines up in R&D that are calling your name."

Bruce Banner and his new friend traipsed up to test the scrap, Bruce promising the Other Guy not to hurt it. After all, it had been with him since the beginning. And he had a long way to go yet.


	4. Natasha

**Natasha is just great. And damn hard to write.**

**dysprositos, thanks for making me legible.**

* * *

Natasha Romanoff was _not _sentimental. Any fool could tell that. So, she didn't understand why she kept an old pair of combat boots around.

Honestly, they'd been re-soled twice and were due to go to the cobbler's again soon.

But they were a present, if one could call it that, from the director of the Red Room after her first successful mission. He knew of her distaste for feminine things. Hell, he was the one who had programmed her that way.

* * *

"Romanov, a word. Good job. You followed orders well. Here. Go get some sleep, you're going out tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

And Natasha retreated to her bunk before opening the box. She liked the boots. They were on her feet when she left for her next mission.

And the next one. And the one after that.

* * *

She wore them whenever she could. Unfortunately, her missions more often than not required high heels and makeup.

The Red Room's assignments were just beginning to bore her when she met her match on the other end of a crossbow.

He was the American agent Hawkeye, and he had been sent to kill her. She didn't plan on going down easily.

However, he didn't give her the chance. He offered her a new life, where she got more freedom in her missions.

She went without looking back. Luckily, her boots were on her feet.

* * *

Natasha found that she liked working in SHIELD.

Her partner wasn't too terrible either. He was the only human she'd met that could keep up with her.

With more freedom to pick missions, Natasha spent less time in heels and more in her boots.

They were laced to her calves that night in Budapest, when Hawkeye—Clint—nearly died.

* * *

Unfortunately, her deep cover assignment was to work for Tony Stark. He was the kind of man who would notice a woman in combat boots. And she was supposed to fly under his radar in all the ways that mattered.

So the boots were kept in her emergency case with her suit and spare weapons.

Pulling them on while speeding to Hammer's facility was surprisingly relaxing. She went into the building with a smile on her face and didn't stop smiling until she found Vanko missing.

* * *

She was able to assimilate into the Russian general's HQ so much easier without the boots, so, again, they stayed behind.

When Coulson told her that Clint was compromised, she saw red. And a slight tinge colored her vision until she was back in her boots and on her way to Calcutta to retrieve Banner.

His little stunt left her almost shaking in her familiar companions, to use an American cliché.

She scarcely took them off after that.

* * *

Her boots were taut to her calves as she desperately grappled with her partner in the narrow catwalk on the Helicarrier.

When she knocked him out, Natasha was beyond relieved to peel back an eyelid and see the typical gray of Clint's eyes, with none of that unnatural blue staining his irises.

He came to as she was tightening the lacings on her boots, preparing for the fight she knew lay ahead.

By all rights, she knew she should retrieve a newer pair of footwear, but feeling the impressions of her feet and lower legs in these boots convinced her she was making the right choice.

* * *

And she had. A lesser pair of boots would not have absorbed the impact as she leapt onto the Chitauri's flying sled.

Natasha finished out the battle in her boots. Once the dust had died down, she would take them to the cobbler. After all, where else could she find such a reliable pair of footwear? Natasha Romanoff needed reliability, stability in her life.


	5. Clint

**One of the many things I know next to nothing about is Clint's background. I've done some research and shit, but if it's wrong, blame me.**

**A large thank you to my beta, dysprositos, for helping me out so well. She really made the Budapest scene better.**

**12/9: rewritten to better reflect canon.**

* * *

Clint Barton held his cards close to his chest. Only one other person knew of the secret compartment in his quiver. Only he knew its contents.

He kept an old Indian arrowhead in that compartment. He had owned it since childhood; it was rarely far from him.

When he joined SHIELD, it was his handler, Agent Coulson, who suggested Clint have a small niche built into the bottom of his quiver. Coulson intended for Clint to put a personal item in there, as he wanted Clint to have a reminder of who he was when he was out on missions. Deep cover could really fuck with a person; it sounded like Coulson spoke from experience.

There was a soft spot to Coulson that so few saw. And now none ever would.

* * *

Clint was five, digging a hole for his mother's herb garden, when he found the dirty, chipped arrowhead in the earth.

He cleaned it carefully with the feather duster and a washcloth, like he'd seen that man on TV do.

He made sure to hide it well, secreting it away in his special box under his bed, before his father came home.

Dad didn't like it when Clint had fun. And the arrowhead was definitely fun.

A few weeks later, his parents were killed in a car crash. Clint would find out later that his father had been driving drunk and was directly responsible for his mother's death.

One of the social workers took Clint and his brother Barney home so they could pack. Clint was able to finally show Barney all of his treasures. They had to get everything they packed looked at by the woman, who seemed sad.

The social worker deemed the small item appropriate, so Clint was allowed to keep it when he was taken to a foster home.

* * *

Six years later, when Clint and Barney ran away, fed up with the system and threatened to be split up the next time they caused mischief, the arrowhead was in Clint's pocket.

They wound up working in a traveling circus, doing menial labor—under the table, of course.

Clint kept the arrowhead carefully hidden, knowing that anything seen as personally valuable like that was fair game to be taken away as punishment. Or just taken away to be mean. He didn't like bullies, and so, when it came up, he jumped at the opportunity to learn swordsmanship and archery.

Clint found a good hiding place for his arrowhead, and visited it when he needed some down time. He liked to run his fingers over the rough edges and think, playing back complicated step sequences in his head.

* * *

An air of mystery clung to Clint. That was the first thing the SHIELD recruiter noticed. The second was his skill.

When Clint was offered a steadier job and an education, he knew he'd have to be a fool to refuse—Barney had left him, and he had nothing and no one left to tie him to the circus.

He jogged to retrieve his arrowhead and a few other things before clambering into the SUV, never once looking back.

Coulson was kind to the young agent, but firm. He was what Clint had always pictured the ideal father as, even though it was something he had never experienced.

* * *

Clint ran a finger over the arrowhead for luck before confronting the formidable Russian agent. She had quite the reputation, especially for someone so young. He didn't want to become her next victim.

It was a close call, but in the end he managed to get the best of her. But for some reason, he couldn't complete his assignment, couldn't follow the orders he'd been given.

Instead, he offered her a second chance. And when she agreed to go with him and put up no fuss about surrendering her weapons, Clint suspected the arrowhead had a bit of luck about it.

* * *

That theory was proved true in Budapest, where Clint clutched the arrowhead in his hand—the point breaking the skin just over his life line—as Natasha frantically worked over him in a darkened alley.

He survived that night, just barely. When she pried his fist open, Natasha questioned the presence of the grimy arrowhead. Delirious from hypovolemic shock, Clint told her, and she became the only other person to know of its existence. Yet even she had no idea of its importance to him.

After that, Clint made a point of touching the arrowhead before every mission. The boost it gave to his confidence alone was invaluable.

* * *

When Loki invaded Clint's mind, he found several doors made of reinforced steel, chained and padlocked shut. Try as he might, Loki could not penetrate those.

One of the secrets Clint protected so well was his arrowhead. It was a high priority to Clint, right up there with Fury's secrets and a few of Natasha's, none of which were Clint's to tell.

* * *

Clint—Hawkeye—put the quinjet on autopilot for thirty seconds, just long enough to slip a hand inside his quiver and touch the arrowhead. Next to him, Natasha became very interested in whatever she saw out the window as soon as she saw the autopilot light flick on. And in the back, Rogers was oblivious.

He would repeat the motion after the battle and again following Loki's departure.

Clint Barton didn't need luck, not now, not with a team at his back, but a little familiarity and routine never hurt anybody.

Especially a man with a gravesite to visit.


	6. Thor

**Thor was challenging. Hopefully his voice is believable to everyone. I'm a big sibling too, and I know how annoying those little sibs can be. However, mine has never attempted world domination, thank goodness!**

**dysprositos, I so appreciate the beta-ing. Your insight is invaluable. Thank you!**

* * *

Thor Odinson carried many burdens. His wayward younger brother was far and away his largest. Thor wished they could return to childhood when everything was simpler. He still wore a gold anklet that his brother had forged him for his tenth name-day.

The chain was clumsily made, but Thor treasured it and rarely removed it.

He had worn it around his wrist when it was new, but when he fought it could be in the way, so Thor moved it to his ankle.

* * *

Loki had come up to Thor shyly with a small parcel. When Thor opened it, he smiled broadly and snatched up the smaller boy for a hug.

He asked for Loki's help in putting it on immediately. Loki's smile was answer enough.

Frigga was delighted to see her sons getting along so well. She drew Odin's attention to their exchange. Odin, too, was glad.

* * *

Thor was a teenager and sparring when the bracelet caught on his instructor's weapon. It pulled, and nearly broke.

He was horrified and hurried to Loki to explain. Loki was gratified that his brother was making such a fuss. He offered to mend it himself.

As metalworking was not one of Loki's best skills, the bracelet still looked childishly made when he finished the repair.

But Thor liked it that way. He asked if Loki would mind him wearing it around his ankle to prevent any future accidents. Loki acquiesced.

Putting the bracelet around Thor's ankle gave Loki a chance to practice his magic. Rather than return to the forge, he simply duplicated the links in the bracelet until it was large enough to span Thor's ankle.

* * *

Thor shook his ankle experimentally. The anklet was becoming a bit tight, but it still jingled. The function he and his brother were attending did not hold his attention. Loki heard the tinkle and glanced at his obviously bored brother.

He released several small sparks of magic at Thor. One circled Thor's ankle, muffling the jangle, while the others darted about.

Thor smiled gratefully.

Once they were released, Thor seized Loki and asked that he enlarge the chain.

"Again, Thor? I believe this is the second time this month. Are you ever going to stop growing?"

"Brother, you know I have no control over my growth. Please, just adjust the charm."

Loki did. And he kept doing so until Thor finally stopped growing.

* * *

Since the anklet had so much magic in it, the Midgardian medical personnel were unable to remove it. Thor was relieved to find it still unharmed when he was able to take stock of himself.

Jane was an observant woman and she noticed the tinkle when Thor got into her vehicle to travel to Mjölnir. He gave a brief explanation, saying that it was a gift from his brother.

It was too personal to share with a recent acquaintance, even one so lovely as Jane.

* * *

Thor did not remove the bracelet when he learned of Loki's trickery. After Loki chose to give up and fall from the bridge, the anklet was really all Thor had left of him.

He had taken to sitting with his ankle propped up on the other knee so that he could toy absentmindedly with the anklet.

He had one finger under it when a messenger informed him that Loki had been seen on Midgard, and Odin was going to send him there.

Thor was elated. He had missed his brother, had, in fact, mourned him.

It was not until he realized why Loki was in custody that he stopped smiling. Thor was a warrior, though, and forged ahead through his uncertainty.

* * *

During a moment when he had nothing to do, the female warrior who reminded him so much of Sif asked what she heard jingling when he walked. Natasha, as he remembered her name was, deserved an explanation. He tried to paint his brother in as good a light as possible.

Natasha seemed contemplative when he finished speaking. Thor did not expect much, though. He knew her comrade-in-arms was under Loki's control.

If Thor could make her rethink her opinion of his brother even a little, though, then he was doing his job as an older brother.

* * *

As Thor and Loki grasped the Tesseract to return to Asgard, Thor knew that things would be better. Loki no longer glared daggers at Thor. He had abruptly stopped when Thor shook his ankle. Loki knew the familiar sound and was astounded that his brother still wore the bracelet.

Thor Odinson hoped that with their common memories, he and his brother could someday be reunited. There were punishments to be handed out and bridges to be restored, but if the tinkle of the bracelet could remind Loki, then Thor was not so nervous at the prospect. It would take time, but as Midgardians say, Rome was not built in a day.


	7. Loki

**Both Loki and Thor are wordy. Who knew?**

**I didn't want Loki to come across as crazy (like a bag of cats) because I don't think he is. He definitely is a drama queen, though.**

**Many thanks to dysprositos for helping clean up my writing!**

**WARNING: Mild self harm. Loki's got some issues, and he's alone with a sharp pointy thing.**

* * *

Loki was surprised to find himself back on Asgard after so long. With his dagger still strapped to his thigh, no less.

He was sure that Thor would inform his captors that Loki was fond of hidden weapons. After all, Loki had started hiding weapons on his person because it was the only way he could even hope to best Thor in a sparring match.

* * *

Loki sighed. Thor was so brawny that he could disarm and overpower Loki easily. This outcome had not changed during their most recent fights.

Loki knew that he needed to outthink Thor if he wanted to win. He stalked to his chambers to ruminate on strategy.

A new dagger lay on his worktable. From the craftsmanship, Loki suspected it was purchased in the local marketplace. He thought perhaps Sif had bought it for him there.

Its size gave Loki an idea. He conjured up a sheath and tinkered with its dimensions so that it could wrap around his thigh.

Few people would think to look for a weapon there, on a man, and even fewer would suspect the prince of hiding a dagger in such an undignified place.

* * *

The next time Loki fought Thor, he executed a complicated spin after Thor had disarmed him. He pulled the dagger from his thigh and leapt onto Thor's back, putting it at his throat.

Thor laughed, conceding defeat. He asked Loki where the dagger had come from, though he did not expect an answer from his enigmatic brother.

The dagger did not make an appearance at every fight, nor did Loki win them all. He enjoyed the intrigue, whether or not to use the dagger, keeping Thor off guard.

* * *

Loki practiced with the dagger until he could use it blindfolded. Odin did not approve of small weaponry, so Loki's mastery of his dagger had to be done clandestinely.

He used the dagger when he killed Laufey. He had slit Laufey's throat with it after blasting him across the room.

* * *

It took hours until Loki felt that all of the blood was gone from the blade. He had scrubbed it over and over, desperate to eliminate all traces of the patricide he had just committed.

When Loki was finally satisfied, he debated whether or not to continue carrying the blade. Practicality eventually won out and he decided to strap it back on.

It would not be used again until Loki made an experimental slice through his wrist.

* * *

He was lying at the bottom of some interdimensional wormhole. His adoptive family did not want him. He had killed his real father and his own species (he had a _species_) would never accept him because of his size.

What was he good for, now? Nothing. Perhaps not even living.

Loki pulled the dagger from his sheath. He cut his left wrist deeply, and watched as the blood pooled on the ground around him. In a few short moments, he passed out.

When he came to, Loki was reasonably sure he was not dead. Still in the same cavern. Shit, but couldn't he do even this simple thing properly?

If death was not an option, Loki needed a plan.

He was good at those.

* * *

The realm to which Odin had banished Thor seemed like a suitable kingdom for Loki's rule. Its inhabitants were weak, but numerous. Loki would need an army to take it over. For that, he needed allies.

The Chitauri were eager to cause destruction. Striking a bargain with them required little effort. His silvertongue was barely used and he never even felt the need to reach for his dagger.

With phase one of his plan in place, Loki prepared to begin phase two. He called to the Tesseract and felt himself flying through the air.

* * *

Loki despised these so-called Avengers. First, the hawk had the nerve to battle Loki for his mind. Loki had to struggle immensely to keep him in line.

Second, that female tricked him! She had bested him at his own game, lying.

Third, Thor was...Thor. He was a brutish lout who had caused more problems than Loki cared to think about.

The other men were annoying, but inconsequential. At least, until Loki failed to penetrate the Man of Iron's mind. Something was preventing him. That was VERY annoying.

And then the giant green beast pounded Loki into the floor and had the cheek to call him a puny god. Well, Loki had seen its other form and payback would be sweet, indeed.

* * *

The Midgardians were preparing to send Loki and Thor back to Asgard when Loki heard the sound. He listened and heard it again, coming from Thor's ankle. Thor noticed that it had caught his attention, and smiled tentatively at him. Loki wanted to return it, but couldn't through his muzzle.

Loki considered trying to reach his dagger to get free, but he knew that if he stayed, he had a chance at redemption. He craved it. Plus, he couldn't give away the dagger's location.

He was going to use it to win his next sparring bout with Thor, after all.


	8. Fury

**Many thanks to my beta, dysprositos, for telling me that he didn't EVER do anything 'numbly.' And the ambiguous pronouns. Too many damned men, indeed.**

**Warning: language. Fury cusses big time. And he isn't always politically correct.**

* * *

Nick Fury was a complex man. Being one of the world's top spies could do that to a person. One of his more overt secrets was his missing eye. The eyepatch that covered the empty socket was special, custom-made. It was lined with a piece of the first belt he'd ever won in a boxing match.

It had proved almost bulletproof.

In his line of work, safety was paramount. That old belt had saved his life more than once.

* * *

Fury was an idealistic young recruit. His first couple missions had gone well, making him a cocky sonuvabitch when he went out on his sixth.

It had been going well until the sniper opened fire. Running for cover, he had taken a bullet to the abdomen. It deflected off his belt.

He walked away that day with nothing more than bruising. All due to a belt he shouldn't have even been wearing.

His ego was drastically smaller.

* * *

The day Fury lost his eye, his belt was in two pieces at the repair shop.

When he was released from medical, he went to go pick it up.

He tripped three g'damn times and fell on his ass once walking there. The fucking eyepatch was screwing with his sense of balance.

The shop owner did not improve Fury's fucking mood any when he told him that his belt couldn't be fixed.

Fury quietly took the pieces and walked (stumbled) back to his quarters.

* * *

He worked tirelessly to restore his shitty balance to normal, like it had been back in his boxing days.

Once he was able to walk (and shoot) straight again, he went out on a mission.

A rogue agent flung a knife at him. He'd dodged and it hit off target, right in the middle of his ruined eye socket.

Great, now his fucking scar tissue had motherfucking scar tissue.

It didn't hurt much, but it bled like a sonuvabitch.

Fury knew it couldn't happen again, so he started planning a way for his eye to be protected.

Kevlar? No, too bulky.

Bulletproof lens? No, he didn't need a fucking monocle like some demented Nazi.

* * *

Around this time, for no apparent reason other than to piss people off, SHIELD decided to change bases.

When he was packing, Fury found his old belt. One of the pieces was the size of the Kevlar patch he'd been trying on.

Hmm, what if?

He got some scotch tape and positioned the belt fragment over the misshapen crater. It was, unsurprisingly, a perfect fit.

The tech gave him an odd look, but agreed to fit it into a patch as fast as he could.

* * *

The next time Fury went out, he wore his new creation. No knife was getting to his damn eye, not on his watch.

It wasn't tested until a few missions later, when a bullet flew at Fury. He turned his head and it ricocheted off.

He saved his victory whoop for when he was alone, later that evening.

* * *

Many years passed, and Fury was promoted to the head of SHIELD. Not that it mattered much, he still had to answer to the fucking Council.

What the hell kind of a name was 'Council,' anyway? Could they be any more unoriginal?

He had a chip on his shoulder from the time they had tried to take his modified eyepatch away. They claimed it was not proper. Spies, they said, should not have armor. They weren't soldiers.

Fury had reached over to the nearest one (they hadn't graduated to the video screens yet) and pulled the concealed pistol out of her ankle holster, pivoted, and shot the man across from her in the chest.

The bullet was deflected by his vest.

Words were unnecessary at that point, so he tossed the gun on the table and turned to leave, strutting slightly.

* * *

When the newly compromised Agent Barton took a shot at him, Fury was very glad that he didn't always have to listen to the damn Council. He'd be dead if it weren't for the bulletproof vest Barton knew he was wearing.

A headshot would have certainly eliminated him, unless it hit him in the eyepatch. He was cautiously optimistic about his agent now, but Fury didn't know how much Barton's aim was being affected by having Loki in his head.

* * *

After the battle with the Chitauri, Fury pulled off his patch and rubbed his face tiredly. He couldn't understand why the Council would feel the motherfucking need to fucking _nuke_ Manhattan.

Actually doing it, though, was something he would not put past them.

On that note, he had to go restrain them from harassing his man for doing the right thing and saving the motherfucking city.


	9. Hill

**I loved writing this.**

**dysprositos, thank you for fixing my ambiguity and telling me "she's got a mix of femininity and badassery going on that works well."**

* * *

Agent Maria Hill was a professional person, rather old-fashioned. She wore her hair in a bun for two purposes: practicality, and to give the appearance of femininity, despite her job.

She wore her grandmother's hairpin in the twist, keeping it close. After her mother had died, her Gran had raised her. The hairpin had been a high school graduation gift, and she treasured it.

* * *

"MARIA HILL."

Maria rose from her seat and hastened to climb the stairs to the stage, cursing her high heels the whole way.

She took her diploma from the secretary, shook hands with the principal, and smiled for the camera.

Gran was sitting in the fourth row, beaming. Maria's father apparently couldn't be bothered to attend. She had only reminded him seventeen times and left eight notes around the house.

Gran's attendance was wonderful, but Maria still felt her father's absence. She tried to hide it, but Gran, perceptive as always, had noticed almost immediately when they found each other in the crush after the ceremony.

Maria threw her arms around her grandmother, waved at her friends, and pulled a tissue out of her purse for Gran.

Gran pulled her toward the door. Once they were outside, Gran sniffled and calmed. Reaching into her own purse, she handed Maria a small package.

"I was going to give this to you after dinner, but I think you deserve it now. I love you, hon'."

Maria pulled at the paper quickly, but neatly (she was a lady after all). She opened the box to reveal the hairpin that Gran had worn on her wedding day.

"Really, Gran, this is for me? It's so pretty!"

"Yes, darling, it is for you. You're all grown up now, and you need to look the part."

"But you wore this when you married Pop! I'd lose it or break it..."

"No, you won't. I've taught you to take better care of your possessions than that."

"Yes, Gran." Maria tucked the box securely into her purse and smiled. "Shall we?"

* * *

Gran taught Maria several different hairstyles that used the pin. Maria had used her favorite on the day she got the phone call that changed her life.

She was in her last semester of college as a criminal law major. Her forensics teacher, usually only _slightly_ boring, was quite dull that day. She was daydreaming, and it took her a minute to recognize that her name was being called.

She flat-out ran to the office and picked up the phone. No sooner did she hear the name of the hospital than she was tearing for the parking lot, keys in hand.

Maria arrived at the hospital just in time, and was with Gran when she died.

The nurses bustled around, offering to call Maria a ride home. Maria allowed herself to sob for a few moments before she shook her head and stood up, firmly in control of herself.

She declined the offer, placed a few phone calls, and made the preliminary arrangements.

* * *

Maria moved out the next day. Her father had wandered in at two in the morning, asking where Gran was, he wanted an omelet.

Maria cussed him out and started packing, boxing up her things and Gran's.

She found a small apartment near campus. Throwing herself into her work, Maria graduated at the top of her class. She didn't attend graduation. It seemed pointless; nobody would be there to support her.

She was nursing a cup of coffee at the campus coffee shop, listening to the open mic performances, when an imposing man with an eyepatch took the seat across from her.

He offered her a job, a means of starting over. She scarcely had to think for thirty seconds before shaking his outstretched hand enthusiastically.

* * *

Fast-forward about a decade. Maria Hill hadn't spoken to her father since that day. She loved her job. She was the director's right-hand woman and she was damn good at it.

She wore her hair up every day.

The only blip on her radar was almost dying when the ceiling collapsed during that SOB, Loki's, escape.

However, the Avengers fought him and his alien army, and won. Hill had been up in the helicarrier, monitoring the area. It was she who alerted Fury to the presence of the nuke.

Once the dust had cleared, Hill wrapped her hair up more securely and strode to her computer console. She had work to do.

Some days, it felt like it was never done.


	10. Coulson

**God, but I almost cried writing this.**

**A huge thank you to dysprositos for being a beta extraordinaire and reminding me that Coulson did watch Steve while he recovered, Edward Cullen-creepy-style.**

* * *

Agent Phil Coulson had two great loves: his job and his music. He was a top-notch government agent and an accomplished violinist.

His career dominated most of his time, but he had the rare weekend where he could go to Seattle and unwind, anonymously performing with the Philharmonic. He had a standing arrangement with the third chair, who welcomed an extra evening off to spend with his four kids.

Playing was something he'd enjoyed since he first picked up the instrument as a child.

* * *

Phil was eight. His teacher was doing a unit on Mozart and Phil had seen a video of an orchestra performing his Haffner Symphony. The musicians in the front row had looked so involved and their instrument looked interesting.

He raised his hand, "Mrs. Jones, what are those people playing?"

"That's a violin, Phil."

When his parents got home from work that evening, he asked if he could play the violin. His parents told him that they would think about it. The next day, they agreed.

What Phil would find out later was that his mother had to pick up another cleaning job to cover his instrument and lessons. His father told him that it was a sacrifice she enjoyed making.

He proved to be talented. He sight-read exceptionally well. In high school, he joined the orchestra. Performing with a group challenged him; he would become first chair by December of his sophomore year.

When he went to college, he continued to play with the school orchestra.

He was working on his Masters in psychology when SHIELD approached him. He was certainly interested in the job they were offering, but he did want to finish that degree. SHIELD agreed, volunteering to pay for his remaining year. Delighted, he accepted.

* * *

SHIELD's boot camp was harder than the Marines'. Phil, Coulson now, persevered and made it through. He excelled at team activities, a combination of his psychology studies and the group skills he'd learned in orchestra.

When he was promoted from probationary agent to full-fledged agent, Coulson bought himself a whole folder of new sheet music to celebrate.

He still played on the same violin that his parents had gotten for him, all those years ago.

* * *

As the years passed, Coulson found that he had little downtime, but his violin was a great stress reliever.

God knows, he needed one.

Hopefully, things would quiet down with the installation of a new director. Fury was definitely intimidating but he seemed to know his job well. He also supported his agents having a hobby outside of the agency. He'd seen firsthand what getting consumed by the job could do to a person.

Coulson worked well with Fury. He was soon leading his own teams on assignments. One of the most challenging was simply getting an audience with Tony Stark after his return from Afghanistan.

He knew Stark's people; an outside factor motivated Ms. Potts to demand to speak to him when she did.

He was correct, of course. Obadiah Stane had gone insane and wanted to kill Stark. Just another day at the office for Coulson, until he saw the suit.

Fortunately, Stark handled Stane. And then blew the press conference, revealing his identity to the public.

Fury ripped Coulson a new one for that blunder.

Coulson spent a whole week with the Seattle Philharmonic after that. It was then that he met Linda, a cellist. She was a beautiful woman, as dedicated to music as he was. She understood that he couldn't talk about his job.

From then on, whenever he visited Seattle, Linda and he had an early dinner before the show.

* * *

Getting shipped off to Bumfuck, New Mexico really put a wrench in Coulson's plans. He had been intending to spend the evening with Linda in Seattle on Saturday because the conductor was down with the flu. Now he was stuck babysitting some hammer.

Well, at least it didn't back talk as much as Stark did. However, he couldn't threaten to tase it, either. And that was too bad.

He'd been rehearsing one-liners ever since he was reassigned to Stark.

* * *

Thor swept in and saved the day, got his powers back, happy ending all round.

Honestly, Coulson was sick of all the superheroes getting all the credit. SHIELD worked at least twice as hard as they did. If only they could return to the '40s, where things were simpler. Captain America did the dirty work and shared the credit with the behind-the-scenes workers.

He'd been reading Captain America comics since Linda gave him a couple she'd found lying around, saying she hoped they proved interesting.

They had. He spent as much time practicing his violin as he did online, searching for memorabilia. His favorite find was a set of trading cards.

The cards were in his tuxedo pocket the next time he performed, and Linda's laugh when he showed them to her afterward was one of the best things he'd heard in a while.

Much better than Fury's bite.

Coulson had requested to be taken off of field ops after seeing how ineffectual he was when superheroes got involved.

He was happy to hear that he was assigned to his two favorite agents, Hawkeye and Black Widow. He was especially fond of Barton, having recruited him as a young man.

When they discovered Captain America, alive, Coulson just had to go see him. Not telling Linda was something that ate at him, though. Maybe he should start thinking about retirement in a couple years. He had a good nest egg and they were both favorably inclined toward adoption.

* * *

Coulson had to sit down for a minute when he heard that Barton was compromised. Then he called Widow, pulling her out of her assignment and sending her after Banner. Fury was getting Rogers, Romanoff was bringing Banner and herself, Coulson was getting Stark (_joy!_), and Barton was gone.

Stark's quip about his name gave him a pang of guilt about how he'd been neglecting Linda lately. Ms. Potts so reminded him of Linda. They both carried themselves regally, like real ladies.

No tasing was required, a huge disappointment, and Stark agreed to report the next morning after reading up on the situation.

* * *

_Holy fucking shit_! Captain America had anxiety issues. Coulson met Rogers (officially) on the plane ride to the Helicarrier. Seeing Rogers's anxiety, Coulson started to chatter to distract him.

Rogers was no idiot, though, and picked up on what Coulson was doing. He apologized and explained why he was so nervous about flying. It was the first time he'd been conscious for a flight since he crashed.

Rogers needed reassurance.

Coulson stayed with him until Romanoff took the others below deck. He saw Rogers giving Fury a bill and he was quite curious about that exchange.

Fury was too busy to ask right then, so Coulson filed it away as something he could do later.

He went to his quarters and checked that his violin was stowed away securely. The last time the Helicarrier had flown at this speed, it had been flung across the room and scratched.

* * *

The alarm sounded. Coulson checked the video screens and saw his agent, Hawkeye, stalking toward the bridge. His eyes, normally gray, were an icy blue.

The Hulk roared in the distance and Coulson ran for the armory, entering the "only in a FUCKING NATIONAL EMERGENCY, Coulson" password into a storage container.

He grabbed the gun and made for the source of the trouble, Loki.

Thor was in the containment chamber when he got there. Coulson advanced on Loki, who disappeared. Coulson looked for him, and then he felt it. Loki had stabbed him through the chest.

Coulson shot him. Loki appeared dazed.

Everything was blurry, until Fury was standing over him, looking worried. Coulson tried to talk. He really wanted to know what Rogers had paid Fury for, and he wanted to get a message to Linda. He loved her. She should get his violin, and anything else of his she wanted. She was his insurance beneficiary. He couldn't muster up the energy to say all of these things, but Fury looked like he understood.

His eyes closed.

* * *

**This is the last of the people that I had planned to write. Thank you for all of the support the SHIELD agents have received.**


End file.
